


Some Time to Think it Over

by blazichu



Category: Mystery Skulls Animated
Genre: Angst, Gen, Internal Conflict, Post-Hellbent, Temporary Amnesia, and that's what's keeping Arthur going, not necessarily a happy ending but there's hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 12:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16367780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blazichu/pseuds/blazichu
Summary: Arthur wakes up in the back of a semi-truck. Things get worse before they can get better.He could actually feel the spark that trailed up from his metal fingers, shocking the sense back into him.He remembered.





	Some Time to Think it Over

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I'm not 100% happy with how this turned out, but if I play with it any more, all I'm gonna do is muddy the intention behind it. Keep you eyes open for some not-so-subtle hand-related symbolism!

Arthur woke up in the back of a semi-truck.

Normally, that would be bad news, but he had the distinct impression he’d narrowly escaped something worse. For several foggy seconds, he watched as the shadows playing over the sides of the trailer shifted and tried to make sense of _anything_ that was going on.

The truck seemed as good a place to start as any. He didn’t remember working on any semis recently, let alone have any business in the back of one. His head throbbed and he moved to investigate, but only one hand responded; he gave the prosthetic a flat look. So they were playing _that_ game. What was it this time? Mechanical failure? Electronic?

The light source abruptly stopped and moved the other way and, startled, Arthur whirled around to keep it in front of himself.

Oh _shit._ The ghost. It _had_ caught up to them, hadn’t it?

It didn’t seem to notice his return to the waking world, re-tracing its path along the length of the truck like nothing had changed. As it drew nearer Arthur could make out a steady stream of vocalizations, and even though he could pick out the occasional bit of English mixed in, it was too inconsistent to make any words out—too fast, too indistinct, switching rapidly between languages that Arthur could almost recognize and something that sent a thrill of fear down his spine.

He took several instinctive steps backwards as its path brought it just a little _too_ close, until his back hit the other side of the trailer. It… didn’t look like it had calmed down since the last time he’d seen it; while it wasn’t exactly obliterating its own haunt this time, flames spat fitfully from its shoulders, warding away even the smaller ghosts that seemed to follow it. Its free hand balled into a fist and, haltingly, creaked open—it didn’t even uncurl its fingers all the way before clenching it again.

Arthur’s eyes flicked toward the trailer’s door—the shutter wasn’t fully drawn. It would make for a loud escape, but an easy one. If he waited until it was at the very front, he might have enough of a head-start to—

The ghost turned on its heel; its followers hastily moved out of its way, and then made to keep trailing after it.

Inexplicably, Arthur’s nerveless fingers itched to reach for it. Where the urge came from, he didn’t know and he didn’t care. He was almost glad his prosthetic was malfunctioning, just because it meant he was only half as likely act on the impulse.

A wordless growl escaped the ghost’s nonexistent throat, underlying its frantic muttering for half a second. If the situation had been more appropriate, Arthur might have wondered how that worked, even for a paranormal being, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the flame-wreathed hand that flew to its skull.

Just for a moment, the sight of its open palm made the world fall out from under him.

He—he really had to get out of here. The sheer amount of fire in this truck was a hazard, never mind the fact that it was responding to an emotionally unstable ghost. His first— _only_ —plan had been a good one. He should just run with it. Literally.

His feet didn’t obey. He made it two steps away from the wall, but the instant he made to turn, it was like he’d been weighed down—like he didn’t just have one useless limb, but three.

_(And for the second time in his life, his arm betrayed him.)_

When the ghost’s path brought it nearest, Arthur’s prosthetic shot out towards it. He only grazed its sleeve before one of the followers snapped at him, but it was enough. He could actually feel the spark that trailed up from his metal fingers, shocking the sense back into him.

He _remembered_.

The ghost— _Lewis_ —didn’t respond at all, dark eyes unfocused, hair spitting embers whilst he spat furious Spanish to nobody in particular.

If the ghost was really Lewis _(he remembered. He remembered kicking at thin air, desperate to find purchase wherever he could. His arm moving so_ agonizingly _slowly, a burst of flame that left something more than ash in its wake.)_ then—then he had _died_. And he had tried to—tried to—

‘Tried to scare him’, said some little liar in Arthur’s head, and for now, he chose to believe it.

The cave was gone. The stalagmites were gone. Right now, there was a truck, empty save for Arthur, his best friend, and a handful of anxious ghosts. He’d been searching for months. Now, when he had the answers right in front of him… there were more important things to do than remember— _(oh god, he was going to fall. He was going to_ die _here)._

He forcibly pushed the thought away. Not now. Soon, maybe, but not _now_.

“L-Lewis?”

It was impossible to miss the way the hand still clutching at Lewis’s skull shook; he snarled something incomprehensible and _oh-so-wrong_ to Arthur’s human ears, but it wasn’t a response. He only noticed because he’d been looking for _any_ indication that Lewis had heard him, but almost as soon as the outburst died down, it was succeeded by something that might have been a whimper.

“Lewis! C’mon, can you hear me? Look at me!”

He froze in midair, though his hands still visibly trembled, and whipped his skull around to look at Arthur. Pinpricks of light bored into him, so small that he’d almost assumed the eyes trained on his were empty.

Arthur took a deep breath and acknowledged the fact that, _yes_ , this was the same ghost that had made three separate attempts on his life, but he couldn’t let that scare him away. Something was _obviously_ wrong—even ignoring the fact that the Lewis he knew would never entertain the idea of hurting someone, there was still the undeniably distressed behavior. He had to be missing something here.

They stared at one another for half a second before Lewis barked something at him. The meaning was clear, and, between the otherworldly language Lewis had said it in and the tone he’d used, part of Arthur really _did_ want to make a break for it. He could feel his legs wobble, but stood his ground.

Eye sockets narrowed at him and, in the exact same tones, Lewis bellowed, “ ** _Leave!_** ”

It was almost enough to make Arthur obey, in spite of his conviction. Though his voice was still distorted, it was recognizable—and in English, colored with such alien hostility, recognizable and _uncanny_. That wasn’t how Lewis spoke or acted. Arthur had never—

...no. He had heard that timbre before, just once. They'd been running from a pack of something that weren't dogs, and Arthur had been cornered. Up until just a second ago, he hadn't been sure whether Lewis's intention had been to scare the not-dogs off or draw their attention, but now he knew. If the creatures had been there with them, he was certain they'd have fled towards the gap in the door.

He wasn’t sure why, exactly, but the thought was encouraging. There was still someone vaguely recognizable in there. He took a tentative step forward.

Lewis backed off.

“Lewis, wait. C’mon…”

“What are you _doing_? Nothing happened! Just go!”

He spared a thought for the odd claim and then took another step, to the same response. Lewis let go of his skull to wrap the arm around himself instead. Any other time, Arthur would have taken the hint and let the topic die, but today he couldn’t do that.

“There’s nothing _for_ you here! Leave me _alone_!”

“There’s nothing…? You don’t actually expect me to buy that, do you?”

“I don’t know.” Lewis snapped, “I don’t know what I’m—what you’re—“ He broke the sentence off with a frustrated grunt and shifted his stance again, moving to feel blindly for the semi’s front wall.

As soon as he processed it, Arthur lunged, catching him around the wrist before he could escape.

He expected resistance. He did _not_ expect Lewis to stumble the rest of the way backwards, or to start trembling so badly that it alone nearly shook Arthur’s mechanical grip. Out of desperation, Lewis yanked his arm upwards, over Arthur’s head, and managed to lift him up off the ground instead.

The instant his feet left the truck bed, Arthur felt himself go limp. His gaze immediately dropped, searching for the spikes below. Metal met him instead, less than a foot down from where he was hanging in the air.

Right. _Right_. He was the one keeping himself aloft this time. Even if he let go and fell, worst case scenario, all he’d do was land on his ass. Didn’t mean he was looking forward to it, but it wasn’t exactly fatal.

He took a deep breath and looked up, where his best friend flinched away from his attention. Lewis gave his arm a pitiful—though, admittedly, deliberate this time—shake and made a futile attempt to slink further away.

Earlier, as he stalked up and down the truck, it had been impossible to tell whether he was angry or scared. His behavior since had indicated the latter more than the former, but until Arthur had seen his face—not just the skull—he hadn’t realized just how far the balance tilted.

Lewis looked utterly _terror-stricken_.

Without a thought for what he was doing, Arthur reached out in a gesture of support.

With a half-strangled sob of “No!” Lewis dropped his arm, landing Arthur—as predicted—right on his ass. In spite of Lewis’s ability to defy gravity, Arthur somehow managed to drag the both of them down, and the strange new vantage point gave him a very brief look at something stony grey and deeply cracked. Whatever it was, when Lewis righted himself, he deliberately angled it away, never once tearing his gaze from Arthur’s prosthetic.

He tried to pull away again, but it was different this time—not the desperate bid for freedom from before, or even to test Arthur’s grip. It was almost like he’d made to move it and just _forgotten_ he couldn’t, which made absolutely no sense, because…

Actually, now that he thought about it, the whole time, every shift in body language he’d watched had been the work on one arm. He hadn’t even noticed that the other stayed stubbornly tucked against Lewis’s chest. If he’d been so violently opposed to being touched, why hadn’t he just used his free hand to pry Arthur off?

It was almost silly to ask—the answer had almost literally been dropped in his lap. Lewis was holding onto something, trying to protect it.

He didn’t think he’d be able to get an answer from Lewis; apart from somehow keeping him from leaving, Arthur was in no position to force a _reality warping ghost’s_ hand. That was okay. It only took a few seconds to narrow it down.

The grey lump he’d gotten an eyeful of had once been a little golden heart.

There was no world in which that could be a change for the better.

But realistically, there was no way Arthur could do anything about it. Not right now, when Lewis was defending it so vehemently. It… would be okay, right? It had broken before, and been mended, hadn’t it? He felt certain that it had thrummed gold in the phantom cave, but doubt lurked just below the surface. He’d had only a second to process what was happening between being grabbed and dangled over the side of a cliff—and, while it was infinitely more pleasant to try to focus on the heart, that wasn’t where his attention had been at the time.

He shuddered and tried to move on for the time being. It was all too recent for him to process, and too much for Lewis to handle at the moment. The problem would either correct itself, or keep until it could be addressed.

Somehow, he wasn’t quite able to believe the liar that had taken up residence in his head on that one.

A sharp and wholly unnecessary breath next to him alerted Arthur to the fact that, during his brief venture back to the stone outcropping, he’d subconsciously grasped for whatever he could reach. Which would still be Lewis. He turned his attention back to his friend’s face, worried for what he’d just caused. It was bizarre, but he looked… _less_ freaked out now? His eyes were still trained on Arthur’s hand, but the one laying on top of the prosthetic rather than the metal fingers that were visible beneath it.

Arthur made to move it away but, at the last second, curled it around Lewis’s instead, the same way he used to lead him around town, even after Lewis had learned the way for himself. It was trickier now— it had been ever since Lewis had finally hit his growth spurt— and awkward against the grip on his wrist, but, in some small way, it made Arthur feel better about what was going on.

Lewis’s fingers twitched, the same as he’d absently tried to pull his arm away before. Like he was reminding himself not to do something instinctive.

“No,” He hissed to himself, and Arthur didn’t know whether to look him the eye or keep his attention where it was as the larger hand grasped back, “No, it’s wrong. I can’t.”

When he risked a glance upwards, Lewis’s eyes were distant and unfocused, betraying the fact that, mentally, he was somewhere else. Awkwardly, Arthur dropped his gaze again, staring at the pitch black hand that enveloped his. He had a feeling he knew what that had been about.

And… and if he was right, that meant there was hope. The Lewis he knew would never have taken things to these extremes _under normal circumstances_. If the memory of the monster-dogs and the uncharacteristic behavior they had brought out proved one thing, it was that Lewis was prone to lashing out under certain circumstances. He’d been angry, he’d been—

He’d been _scared_.

Arthur stared hard at their hands. He would fix this, but he had to understand what was happening, what had happened in their time apart.

He felt a lump rise in his throat. Of course it came down to that.

If he wanted to end this, he had to know what had happened the night Lewis disappeared. The night that—

_“Nothing happened!”_

_“There’s nothing_ for _you here!”_

_“I don’t know.”_

His mouth went dry as something occurred to him. Arthur could only remember bits and pieces of the night he’d lost his arm, Vivi didn’t remember _anything_ about that night, or anything about Lewis.

And Lewis…

“Do—do you know who I am?”

Lewis paused and, slowly, moved to look Arthur in the eye for the first time since his name had been called. He seemed to have a bit of his metaphorical fire back, and Arthur wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

The silence lasted long enough that Arthur felt he had his answer, whether Lewis said anything or not.

“A _murderer_.”

He almost didn’t notice the response he actually got, and when he did, his attention was stolen away. Buried deep beneath the accusation, more of a question than anything, Arthur heard just a whisper of his name.

He swallowed. “And—do you know who…”

Arthur trailed off, derailed by a wave of heat rushing over his hand and the plume of fire that accompanied it, nearly blinding in the darkness that the trailer had lapsed into. The hand folded over his clamped down and dragged him upright as Lewis straightened up to his full height.

Even though he was standing under his own power, Arthur’s pulse raced.

Lewis looked down his nose at Arthur and grimaced.

“A _murderer_.”

The fire didn’t hurt, some small part of his brain told him. It was a distant realization, and Arthur could only hope it didn’t come from the beguiling little voice he’d already bought into. The rest of him screamed to act on basic instinct and get away.

Almost clumsily, Lewis let go of the heart at his lapel and raised his hand beneath Arthur’s chin.

Arthur had expected more fire. From the look on his face, so had Lewis.

The grey lump gave a fitful shudder, purple sparks jumping between the cracks, and Lewis’s entire form sagged. He withdrew his arm and lethargically moved to cover the fluttering heart, doing little to properly conceal it.

It crackled again, and he closed his eyes, turning away.

 “Why did you kill me?”

Somewhere, far away even as it seared Arthur’s eardrums, a gunshot echoed into the night.


End file.
